


Soul meets soul (on lovers’ lips)

by Phoenix_Soar



Series: Scattering Stars Like Dust [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angel/Demon Relationship, Awake the Snake (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), F/F, F/M, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Genderfluid Aziraphale (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Spouses (Good Omens), Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, Male-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Regency, Scene: Crucifixion of Jesus 33 AD (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25391140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Soar/pseuds/Phoenix_Soar
Summary: It takes 6000 years, and two months of Crowley sleeping, for Aziraphale to dredge up the courage to take that final step in their relationshipOR: The #AwakeTheSnake and 5-Times-Crowley-Kisses-Aziraphale-Plus-1-Time-Aziraphale-Kisses-Crowley fusion that nobody asked for
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Scattering Stars Like Dust [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762345
Comments: 32
Kudos: 211
Collections: AwakeTheSnake, British Angels and Demons, Good Omens Lockdown fics, The Good Omens Library





	Soul meets soul (on lovers’ lips)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the result of me challenging myself to write  
> 1) #AwakeTheSnake,  
> 2) the 5-Times-Plus-1 trope,  
> 3) ineffable kisses Through The Ages  
> and, just for the hell of it, combine them all into a one-shot bc how is that not a recipe for disaster, right?
> 
> So yup, this concoction is my very belated contribution to #AwakeThe Snake. ~~It doesn’t seem like one when you start reading, but trust me~~

It takes four millennia and thirty-seven years for Aziraphale to receive his first kiss from Crowley.

It is an hour after sunset on the day the sands of Golgotha were splattered with the lifeblood of a man sent to save humanity, but humanity did not save him.

Aziraphale did not save him.

He stares into his clay cup of wine **.** It is his third or thirtieth tonight, but despite the past few hours of singleminded drinking, he doesn’t feel a jot of the pleasant buzz* he has been chasing after.

(* Or just the buzz alone, for today and the immediate future promise little, if any, pleasure.)

Sorrow, it seems, will not allow sobriety to be drowned out. Not tonight.

‘They say that good company is half the pleasure of drinking.’

With a start, Aziraphale lifts his head just as the dark-clad, woman-shaped being to whom that silky voice belongs, slides into the seat across from him in the loud tavern.

Despite the dryness in her words, her slitted golden eyes watch him with unnerving gentleness, giving Aziraphale her undivided attention even as she swipes a cup of wine from a passing barmaid’s tray.

‘Craw - Crowley,’ Aziraphale mutters.

‘Not so far gone, then, hmm?’ The Demon’s lips, thin and pleasingly pink, curve up as she takes a sip. ‘Then let me catch up.’

Aziraphale stares at her for several seconds, at her sharp angular face framed by trailing, auburn curls and a black veil.

_Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?_ She’d said earlier, looking as grim as Aziraphale had felt but not allowed himself to express, there in the shadow of those terrible crosses.

‘I can’t get drunk,’ he breathes out in a rush, his voice thin and reedy with an agony he’d been too frightened to show before. ‘I can’t forget.’

A thin, shapely eyebrow rises while Crowley lowers her cup. She doesn’t look away from him.

‘There was nothing I could’ve done,’ he continues, voice shaking as he looks back down at his wine. ‘Or I should’ve intervened, but … perhaps it would’ve still ended the same way …’

Aziraphale shakes his head, a minute movement. ‘I was told it had to happen, that it was Yeshua’s divine fate … but for one to bear such a cross, I - I don’t understand _why_ …’

There is a hushed sort of silence then, as if an invisible bubble has encased them, drowning out the rest of the tavern - and Aziraphale realises what he’s just said.

There is the oddest sensation, like the blood in his human corporation has run cold.

Oh. Oh, dear.

He should not have said that, he thinks frantically. He is an Angel of the Lord. It is not his place to question anyone’s fate in the Great Plan, and to do so within earshot of a Demon - why, it must be worse than heresy.

Aziraphale looks up, braced for mirthful yellow eyes, a triumphant sneer, and a scathing taunt for proving the opposition has been right all along -

He stills, and for the longest moment, it is almost as if the tavern itself has come to a standstill.

Crowley is wearing the kindest smile Aziraphale has ever seen on the Demon; that _he_ has ever received, from anyone, in all of his long years on Earth. There is something melancholic in the crinkle of her eyes, an intimacy in the soft twist of her mouth; but above all, she is watching him, Aziraphale realises, with complete _understanding_.

‘I get it, angel,’ she says, her voice so quiet and yet it resounds within Aziraphale. ‘ _Why_? It’s such an ugly question, isn’t it? An ugly feeling.’

Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, Aziraphale nods.

Crowley chews on her lower lip. ‘Do you think an answer exists?’

‘I … there must be,’ says Aziraphale. ‘There has to be -’

‘A rhyme and reason for everything?’

Aziraphale pauses, thinking it over. ‘I’d like to think there is.’ He looks up at Crowley. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think a lot of things,’ she says, ‘with no way of knowing if they are true. Except one, right now.’

‘And what’s that?’

Crowley holds his gaze for a long moment. Slowly, she pushes away from the table, coming round to stand in front of Aziraphale.

A slender hand comes up, thin fingers brushing over his furrowed brows and adjusting his turban before they come to rest on his cheek.

‘That none of it was your fault.’

Aziraphale’s breath leaves him in a soft gasp as his face is tilted up, and then lips, thin but so very warm, are pressing against his temple in the softest of kisses.

A heartbeat, two heartbeats…

The tavern continues around them, not a single soul sparing a glance at the kiss bestowed by a Demon on an Angel. Then the pressure is gone from his forehead, the slender hand releasing his face and -

‘Angel.’

Aziraphale looks up, breathless and speechless, while his heart races like a war horse galloping into a battle from which there is no return.

‘Don’t you ever forget that.’

Crowley is not quite smiling at him, but the gentleness has not left her countenance. Swallowing, Aziraphale manages a nod.

With a hum, the Demon returns to her seat. She holds out her cup of wine, and without waiting for Aziraphale to meet her halfway, clinks it against his without a word.

Crowley drinks with him for the next hour, matching him cup for cup while smoothly easing Aziraphale into a conversation as far removed from the day’s events as occultly possible. Aziraphale notices; he lets her distract him from his perturbing thoughts on the messiah, his transgressive thoughts on questions…

And his sinful thoughts on a kiss that should not have felt like a benediction.

~***~

It takes four millennia, six centuries, and twenty-six years for Aziraphale to receive her second kiss from Crowley.

The winds, which were near-scorching just hours ago under the desert sun, are now as cold as the starlight bathing the endless dunes stretching on ahead.

Aziraphale shivers a little, her human body susceptible to the temperatures that oscillate in these dry lands like a pendulum yet to be invented.

The extra layers over her abaya, as well as the veil hiding her hair, nose and mouth, help to stave off the cold a bit. Come morning, they will protect her from the harsh Arabian sun and rolling winds too. But Aziraphale isn’t looking forward to the uncomfortable journey she is to embark on.

With a sigh, she glances over her shoulder at the sprawling city behind her. It lies silent as the grave in the dead of night. It is not the best place she has lived in*, but her bed is preferable tonight to the prospect of weeks on camelback.

(* A lot of the humans there can do with a little more humanity.)

As if he has heard her thoughts, the camel waiting patiently beside her, which Aziraphale had purchased a few days ago, makes a soft snorting noise. She turns to the towering creature with a smile, smoothing a hand over his coarse fur.

‘Well, Jamal? Are we ready to cross the desert?’

‘Depends, have you properly watered him?’

Aziraphale jumps a little at the low familiar voice, snaking out of the darkness behind her. Her lips twitch up, almost involuntary in their reaction, as she turns around.

In his long black tunic and heavy cloak, he might have been a part of the night sky if not for his uncovered face. His skin is pale in the starlight and there is an otherworldly glow to his ochre eyes, which narrow as he flashes his teeth in a sharp smile.

‘Salaam, Crowley,’ Aziraphale says, the greeting easy on her tongue as she tugs down her veil to expose her face.

‘Sal -’ Crowley begins automatically, and then grimaces. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘Why ever not?’ Aziraphale bites back a knowing grin.

‘It means _peace_ ,’ Crowley complains. ‘You can’t greet me with - I am a Demon!’

‘It is the standard greeting here.’

‘Bet you’re just psyched about that, aren’t you.’

‘I am an Angel,’ Aziraphale returns innocently.

Crowley snorts, but Aziraphale can read the amusement in his expression. She smiles at him, eyeing the way his curly hair falls about his shoulders. In keeping with fashionable appearances as Crowley is wont to do, he is also sporting a beard; it is not long unlike the preference of many men in these parts, but cropped close to his jaw.

Aziraphale stares a little, hardly aware of herself. Crowley looks good*.

(* To put it lightly.)

The Demon turns to the quiet city, silent for several seconds before his gaze returns to the Angel, and then off across the dunes.

‘Finally following the prophet to Medina, are we?’

Aziraphale shifts from one foot to the other, glancing at the awaiting desert. ‘Yes. I received my instructions a few days ago.’

‘It’s a long journey,’ says Crowley.

‘Indeed. I have enough provisions, however.’ Aziraphale pats her bags, weighed down with dried dates and fruit, attached to the camel’s saddle.

‘You’re an Angel, you don’t need provisions.’

‘I need something to pass the time.’

There is a bark of laughter from the Demon. His expression dims. ‘Why not just fly over there? Save you a lot of time.’

‘Upstairs told me -’

‘Ah, say no more,’ Crowley snorts, rolling his eyes.

Aziraphale bristles a little at this show of disdain. She draws herself up, but then all thoughts fly out of her head when, abruptly, Crowley walks forward.

Her breath catches in her throat. Crowley is right in front of her, stepping around to stand beside the camel. His golden eyes, no less dull by the light of the stars than that of the sun, settle on herflushed face, upturned and several inches lower from Crowley’s than it otherwise is in Aziraphale’susual male form.

‘Crowley?’ Aziraphale whispers, a little lightheaded at having the Demon so close.

Her breath stills as Crowley begins to lean down, her pulse fluttering as his face, all sharp angles and devilish handsomeness, reaches her level and then further down, down, until -

Crowley is down on one knee, looking expectantly up at her.

Aziraphale doesn’t understand.

‘I don’t understand.’

There is a gentle quirk of the lips. ‘Camels are tall creatures, angel.’

‘Right,’ says Aziraphale, equal parts baffled and flustered.

‘And you’re not.’

‘I’m not.’

Crocking an eyebrow, Crowley waits. When there is nothing more forthcoming from the Angel, he grasps her left shin over her abaya. Ignoring the Angel’s sharp intake of breath, he guides her foot to rest on his thigh.

With a rush of heat to her cheeks, it dawns on Aziraphale what Crowley is offering. She has seen this before, numerous times in fact; the prophet going down on one knee to help his wife mount her camel before a journey - an act so simple and straightforward in the depth of its consideration, its _affection_.

The desert wind is so cold but Crowley’s strong grip is warm, even through the layers separating his touch from her skin. Every inch of Aziraphale feels like it is on fire.

‘Up you go,’ he says, his voice soft.

Aziraphale swallows. She can tell him she doesn’t need his help. She can tell him she is an Angel, with miracles at her fingertips. She can tell him it is downright scandalous, for a seemingly unmarried man to touch a seemingly unmarried woman so.

She doesn’t.

Right before she places her weight on his thigh, she asks, embarrassed and self-conscious, ‘I won’t hurt you?’

‘Never,’ says Crowley solemnly.

With a blush, Aziraphale grabs on to the saddle and allows Crowley to bear her full weight. His grip on her is steady, and he heaves her up just as Aziraphale swings her free leg, a miracle* hitching up the skirts of her abaya until she is astride her camel.

(* As flustered as she is, Aziraphale is quite certain it wasn’t her doing.)

The momentum nearly unseats her right as she makes it, leaving Aziraphale to scramble for purchase with a yelp. Her right hand finds the saddle and her left -

Warmth courses through her and she looks up, startled, to find her bare fingers caught up in Crowley’s.

‘I’ve got you,’ he smiles up at her and Aziraphale’s heart does the oddest little jig.

‘I - I could’ve managed,’ she says, because she needs to find some sense of normalcy.

Crowley doesn’t reply to that but his lips quirk up, this time in a smirk. The familiarity of it isstupendously relieving.

‘Right then,’ Aziraphale clears her throat, straightening. ‘Best be off.’

She is about to reach for the reins when she notices that Crowley is yet to let go of her. She looks down at her hand, smaller than usual and nearly covered by Crowley’s long fingers.

It makes for a lovely picture and her heart leaps again.

‘Aziraphale.’ Crowley sounds earnest. ‘Will you … will you come back? To Mecca?’

Aziraphale pauses, pondering on her assignment. ‘Not for some years, I think. I am to stay in Medina until …’ She glances back at the sleeping city. ‘I am told he will return, with his companions.’

‘Really?’ Crowley wrinkles his nose. ‘Mecca hasn’t been good to Muhammad.’

‘No,’ she agrees. ‘It’s not a good place to be right now. But … it will be.’

Crowley meets her gaze, contemplative. ‘Right. Until then.’

The hold on her hand tightens. In the space of a breath, soft lips cover her knuckles, warming her cool fingers.

Aziraphale freezes, wide-eyed as Crowley kisses her hand. His eyes are closed, as if to savour the touch, and his mouth lingers, the scruff of his beard tickling the delicate skin.

Without breaking away, Crowley purses his lips against her once more before lifting his head. He offers her a crooked smile, but doesn’t drop her hand.

As the quiet stretches between them, Aziraphale opens her mouth, shuts it, and then again, stammering, ‘It - it is not done for - for unmarried folks to, uhm … engage in such … behaviour.’

Crowley grins, unrepentant and seemingly unaffected but for the flush on his cheeks. ‘Demon, remember?’

The look in his eyes shifts then. ‘It is also not done for a lady to traverse the desert unaccompanied.’ Crowley takes half a step closer, nearly brushing against Aziraphale’s leg. ‘Would you … care for an escort?’

Aziraphale stares at him. ‘Are you not supposed to stay?’

‘No one will notice if I disappear for a few weeks. And I can fly back here in two shakes after seeing you safely to Medina.’

_Seeing you safely_ … the words reverberate in Aziraphale’s ears, electrifying in both pleasure and surprise.

Of course she is safe by herself, but she can’t help but imagine it for a moment; Crowley swinging up onto the camel and riding north with her. Days upon days of endless conversation and japes to pass the time. Days upon days of sharing dried fruit, liquor and laughter.

Days upon days of Crowley pressed up behind her, warm and solid.

She thinks of his hands, so strong and steady on her leg, and imagines them wrapping around her body instead. And she remembers his lips, hot and whiskery on her knuckles, and can almost feel them warming her neck from the biting wind.

‘Angel?’

Snapping back to the present, she immediately wishes she were halfway across the world. Aziraphale averts her eyes.

‘I … do not think it is the best idea.’

Crowley falls silent. His thumb caresses her knuckles, an echo of a kiss. He lets go.

‘I understand.’

Aziraphale tugs her veil back up, covering her mouth, nose and, she hopes, blush.

‘Safe journey, angel.’

She glances down at him. He appears distant and expressionless, not at all like the Crowley she knows.

‘Farewell … my dear.’

In the weeks that follow, the boiling days and freezing nights are nothing to the persistent tingle on the back of her hand.

~***~

It takes five millennia, eight centuries, and seventeen years for Aziraphale to receive her third kiss from Crowley.

The tea party is in full swing inside the manor house, which Aziraphale has quietly exited through the back door. The chatter and laughter of guests floating out through the open windows assure Aziraphale that her absence will go unnoticed.

Sarah Sims is a talented actress and an even more delightful host, but Aziraphale had been rather overwhelmed by the sheer number of people packed into her house. It had been an invitation to tea, after all, not a luxurious ball.

Nonetheless, Aziraphale has paid the social niceties, sipped an appropriate amount of tea, inhaled an inappropriate number of cakes, and is now wandering the thankfully empty garden.

The cobbled stone path leads her to a bench in the far corner, shadowed by tall trees and surrounded by rose bushes. Aziraphale makes a beeline for it, miracling out the book she had purchased just that day. Ideally she would read it in the comfort of her bookshop, but it will be rude to leave so soon and Soho is a long carriage ride away.

Besides, Aziraphale is far too eager to devour the rest of this particular volume.

Time slips her by, as it always does when Aziraphale is engrossed in a book. She has just gasped aloud at Mr Wickham’s horrible revelations about Mr Darcy when a voice intrudes,

‘Rather rude to leave your host hanging, innit, angel?’

Aziraphale looks up, a flash of irritation crossing her countenance before she recognises the source of her interruption.

‘Crowley!’

The Demon raises an eyebrow, her painted lips curving up as she rounds the rose bushes to approach the bench.

‘What are you doing here?’ asks Aziraphale, too stunned at Crowley’s appearance to properly greet her.

‘I believe the invitation was for tea.’

‘Just tea?’ Aziraphale says dubiously, her eyes sliding from Crowley’s tinted eyeglasses and down over her body.

It seems Crowley’s fancy for a little more colour in her wardrobe has spilled from the twilight years of the last century into the present. Her flowing dress, with a most rakish cut about the neckline, is a deep burgundy in colour, hearkening back to her appearance during that memorable Bastille incident*. She has her long, auburn hair swept up stylishly, and adorned with black feathers Aziraphale suspects are from a crow. Otherwise, she wears no accessories; her arms, ears and neck bare, her slim waist highlighted by her stays, and her alluring décolletage bordering on iniquitous.

(* Aziraphale still gets the strangest, fluttering feeling in her gut at the memory.)

‘You’re staring.’

Aziraphale jumps a little, only then becoming aware of the amused twist to Crowley’s mouth.

‘Like what you see?’

Aziraphale is certain her face is as red as Crowley’s curls, but she is caught and there is only one path forward.

‘As a matter of fact, yes. That is a lovely gown. You must let me know your seamstress.’

Crowley snorts, an unattractive sound that does nothing to lessen her overall magnetism.

‘One snap of my fingers and there is my seamstress.’ Crowley grins down at her. ‘Though it seems yours certainly put their sweat and blood into their work, hmm?’

Aziraphale fidgets, her fingers tightening on her book as Crowley’s gaze, evident even through her glasses, rakes over her from head to toe.

She has been told by her human acquaintances back in the manor that she looks splendid in her ivory gown, embroidered in muted gold and trimmed with lace. Her hands are gloved and she has tartan ribbons woven into her upswept hair, for once confident that her appearance is not too out of line with the trends of the day.

And yet, none of the compliments Aziraphale has received compares to Crowley’s slow appraisal of her. She can read the Demon’s approval in the appreciative curve of her mouth, and something more than approval in the way Crowley’s focus blatantly lingers on her bosom.

Aziraphale blushes. The neckline of her dress is nowhere near as risqué as Crowley’s, but she is aware of the voluptuousness of her female corporation - and how flattering it all looks in today’s fashions.

Softly clearing her throat, Aziraphale shifts on the bench, making more room.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ she offers, more to distract Crowley than to be polite.

Crowley accepts the invitation with a hum, leaving a respectable amount of distance between them. Aziraphale almost moves closer, catching herself just in time. What is she doing?

‘So, what is this book that’s so exciting you abandoned your host _and_ those fancy lemon cakes?’

Ignoring the teasing tone, Aziraphale leaps at the chance to gush about the novel.

‘Oh, it’s most exciting! It’s by the same author who wrote Sense and Sensibility,’ says Aziraphale with all the hushed enthusiasm of one sharing a juicy secret.

‘The mystery lady?’ asks Crowley*.

(* For someone who has never found the written word particularly interesting, Crowley is very knowledgable - for she has never not listened, with rapt attention, whenever Aziraphale wanted to talk about the latest piece of writing to catch her fancy.)

‘The very same! Oh, I do wonder who it could be. She certainly brings a different flair to the table compared to her male counterparts.’

‘Romance?’ Crowley’s smile has turned teasing.

‘It is not just about courting,’ Aziraphale protests, blood rushing to her cheeks. ‘She explores _society_ , and with an incredibly satirical touch, I might add. The lady certainly does not hesitate to poke fun at the more frivolous and superficial ills of society’s rules and whims. There is more realism in her work than many of the,’ Aziraphale wrinkles her nose, ‘ _gothic_ novels people enjoy nowadays.’

Crowley takes all this in without interrupting, facing Aziraphale on the bench.

‘What?’ says Aziraphale, tensing a little under the stare.

‘I’m sure you’re right. But the romance is what really does it for you.’

‘What - I -!’

‘Angel,’ Crowley drawls, ‘you talked nonstop about this woman’s first book when it came out. You like reading about courting as much as seeing humans go about it.’

‘Well, it’s …’ Aziraphale begins, certain that her face is flaming. ‘It’s a purely natural thing for humans, of course. Although all the new rules and expectations surrounding it these days don’t bear thinking about.’

'But you enjoy the idea,’ says Crowley with a knowing smile. ‘All that love poetry and letters, chaperoned walks, dancing at balls, sly parlour games where one can get away with being a little naughty…’

‘Really now, my dear.’

‘Do you feel envious?’

Aziraphale blinks. ‘Envious?’

‘Reading and seeing all that? Or perhaps when ladies turn up at balls in fine lace or fresh flowers in their hair, showing off how much their husbands dote on them?’

‘I - I don’t…’ The Angel trails off, her heart beating faster with every word out of Crowley’s mouth. She doesn’t know what to say.

Crowley gazes at her for a long moment. Abruptly, she rises to her feet.

‘Are you leaving?’ says Aziraphale, a hint of desperation as she leaps up.

But Crowley doesn’t go far, stopping by one of the rose bushes surrounding their bench. She plucks two blooms, running a finger down the short stems as she turns back to Aziraphale; the Angel senses the little miracle that follows Crowley’s finger, causing the leaves and thorns to disappear.

Crowley holds the roses a few inches away from her chest; a subtle offering of a gift.

Aziraphale stills, staring at the flowers with wide eyes. They are large and in full bloom, one the colour of fresh blood and the other so dark it almost appears black.

_Crowley’s colours_ , whispers a voice in the back of her mind.

There is a battle brewing within her, one that has waged for many a century. And as always, Aziraphale is caught in the demilitarised zone, one step away from teetering into one side - the side she knows, _knows_ , is not supposed to be hers.

But then Crowley is saying, her voice unexpectedly soft, ‘I bet roses look lovelier in your hair than ribbons’, and Aziraphale, she -

It is only after she has turned around, offering her hair, her neck, to Crowley that Aziraphale realises she is no longer in no man’s land.

She has stepped into the wrong side, _Crowley’s_ side, but she finds herself unable to move nor regret it when she feels Crowley step up behind her, responding to Aziraphale’s unspoken concession.

Long fingers, their careful touch familiar from oh so long ago, slip into Aziraphale’s hair, tracing her coiffure. There is a gentle tug and the occult shimmer of a miracle, and then the tartan ribbons woven through Aziraphale’s hair slip free.

The Angel turns her head slightly, curious and, if she is honest, a little put out. But over her shoulder, she sees Crowley’s elegant fingers nimbly wrap the ribbons around the rose stems, binding the flowers together with an elaborate bow.

The hands return to her hair and Aziraphale breathes out shakily as Crowley fixes the roses, a miniature bouquet wrapped in tartan, to the left of her upswept bun. There is another whiff of magic and Aziraphale knows the roses will not dare fall, not until she removes them herself.

‘There,’ Crowley’s voice is right by her ear, sending shivers dancing down Aziraphale’s spine. ‘They’re a good look on you. Complements your own colours…’

Aziraphale trembles again; she hears the underlying suggestions in Crowley’s praise and knows they are spoken in earnest.

Though no longer touching her, Crowley hasn’t moved away. Her presence is warm and patient, and Aziraphale realises Crowley is waiting. She has already responded to Aziraphale’s invitation to adorn her hair; she doesn’t know what Aziraphale wants next…

Aziraphale can lie that she herself doesn’t know what that is, but she does. The intimacy of the moment has brought to mind an old memory, of a time when Aziraphale had dared to fantasise what it might be like to be held, with Crowley firm and steady behind her, in the darkness of an Arabian night.

She had denied herself then. She can, she _should_ , deny it now.

A heartbeat, a breath, and Aziraphale can almost feel Crowley about to turn away. She steps backwards.

Her back hits Crowley’s chest and Aziraphale hears her inhale sharply. But the Demon stills, holding the contact.

Aziraphale feels like her heart is about to punch right out from between her ribs. She has, whether in full control of her senses or not, made her choice.

Slowly, Aziraphale lets herself relax, leaning back against her friend. At the drop of ambiguity, Crowley finally reacts; she welcomes the weight, pressing forward against the Angel while her hands, slow and gentle, come to rest on Aziraphale’s waist.

The touch is almost unbearably hot, though nowhere near as scalding as Crowley’s breath on her neck; the Demon’s cheek brushes her left ear as she bows her head, nuzzling at Aziraphale’s bared skin.

‘Angel,’ Crowley whispers, barely audible.

‘Crowley, I…’ Aziraphale’s voice dies in her throat, her breath escaping in a little gasp as Crowley closes her fever warm mouth right over her pulse.

The arms about her waist tighten, pulling Aziraphale flush against Crowley as she holds the kiss, her lips parting to suck lightly on the skin.

With a choked sound, Aziraphale closes her eyes, tipping her head back to rest on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley hums under her breath, not pulling away, and Aziraphale clutches her book to her chest with trembling hands.

It feels good, just like Aziraphale had imagined centuries ago, and she wants _more_ \- a thought Crowley abides by, almost as if she’s heard, by relinquishing Aziraphale’s pulse to dip lower and mouth at the crease where her neck meets her shoulder.

And Aziraphale thinks Crowley may just keep on kissing her, sweet and greedy, until Aziraphale tells her to stop or turns around to offer her un-kissed lips -

The sound of voices snaps her to the present, her eyes flying open while Crowley stiffens behind her. In an instant, Aziraphale has drawn away, Crowley’s hands dropping from her waist.

They stare at each other, both of them breathing hard. Crowley’s glasses are slightly askew, revealing a sliver of gold fixed unblinkingly on Aziraphale. Her painted lips are smudged.

The Angel swallows; a part of her aches to fly back into Crowley’s arms, but the more pressing part is pulling her attention to the voices, drawing closer with every passing second.

Guests fro the tea party have, it seems, spilled into the garden and, with a lash of shame, it dawns on Aziraphale what they’ve just been doing. They are in public! They are out in the open, where any human might have caught them -

Not just humans, Aziraphale realises right then, her blood going cold.

‘Angel,’ Crowley begins, her voice hoarse, but Aziraphale shakes her head.

‘I should - I’m going to find Miss Sims. It is getting on a bit.’

‘Aziraphale -’

‘It wouldn’t do to cause a scandal,’ Aziraphale says. From the way Crowley sets her jaw, Aziraphale knows her meaning has been received.

But it makes something inside her ache when Crowley turns her face away, her mouth turning down.

‘You’re probably right.’ Her voice sounds empty.

‘I … I’ll see you around, Crowley. Have a good evening.’

Aziraphale can’t meet her eyes as she walks out onto the garden path, putting away her book and making towards the house as fast as she can without tripping over the hem of her gown.

People stare, as do Sarah Sims, when Aziraphale makes her way through the house to thank her host and take her leave. Sarah looks like she wants to say something, but in the last moment, settles for a smile and thanks the Angel for coming.

It is only after Aziraphale arrives in her bookshop and catches her reflection in a mirror that she understands the reason for all the strange looks.

The left side of her neck is painted red with rouge.

With shaking fingers, Aziraphale touches the smears, a lovely match to the roses in her hair.

She tries not to think about how they feel like a claim; evidence of forbidden kisses given in the shadows, a siren of danger.

Aziraphale only cleans up her neck before she opens her shop the next day. She employs a minor miracle for it, reluctant to physically wipe away the smudged rouge as she recalls the feel of Crowley’s lips over her pulse.

She goes out looking as pure and pristine as an angel, but the phantom imprint of Crowley’s kiss burns her neck; a branding for life.

~***~

It takes five millennia, nine centuries, and forty-five years for Aziraphale to receive his fourth kiss from Crowley.

By the time Crowley pulls over the Bentley in the rubble-strewn street, right in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop, the blaring of sirens has faded to a distant wail.

Aziraphale’s ears ring anyway, with the roar of blood rushing through him since the moment Crowley danced down the aisle, blew a church to smithereens, and pressed a bag of precious books into Aziraphale’s hands.

A hushed sort of silence falls over them as Crowley cuts the engine, the kind that deafens, threatening to overwhelm.

‘Angel?’ Crowley’s voice cuts through it all like a hot knife through butter.

And then nothing exists but Crowley, his concerned voice in Aziraphale’s ear, the beckoning heat of him a foot away, and the weight of his hidden gaze punching a hole through Aziraphale’s head.

He exhales. He ought to thank Crowley and quietly lock himself in the bookshop to deal with the maelstrom of emotions that has been raging within him since _that moment_ …

Yet, he cannot stomach the thought of sending Crowley away. He imagines another eighty years of lonely silence, not knowing where Crowley is or what he’s doing, wondering if he’s safe, if he’s _alive_ …

‘Would you like to come in?’ Aziraphale’s voice cracks, a gunshot in the deathly stillness.

‘Sure. Haven’t got anything else on.’

His lips twitch, equally resentful and thankful for Crowley’s insouciance. They’re playing it safe then, their century-long bitterness set aside if not laid to rest.

Inside the bookshop, Aziraphale leaves the lights off, locking the door behind them with a thought as he leads Crowley towards the back. They are silent again, Crowley a shadow on his heels, and Aziraphale’s heart grows frantic again, nerves crackling under his skin as every single thought that made itself known in the ruins of that church fights to engulf him.

‘All right?’

Aziraphale starts as they step inside his backroom. He hopes Crowley doesn’t notice.

‘I’m perfectly all right, thank you,’ he says evenly, flicking on a couple of lamps. ‘Please, take a seat and I’ll nip into the kitchenette and see wh -’

Turning to Crowley for the first time since they left the car, Aziraphale finally notices - Crowley is walking oddly, his steps ginger as he gravitates towards the old sofa. The relief on his face is clear as day when he takes his weight off of -

‘Your poor feet!’ Aziraphale exclaims, forgetting himself.

Crowley stiffens. ‘What?’

‘Oh, how remiss of me.’ Aziraphale drops his bag of books onto his armchair as he hurries over to the Demon. ‘You must have been in agony all this time!’

‘I - nah, ’s fine,’ Crowley says with a nonchalant shrug, taking off his hat to reveal his hair, short and slicked back. ‘They’re not burning anymore.’

‘I have never heard a less convincing lie.’

‘Pssh. Dunk ‘em in water and they’ll be right as rain.’

‘You walked on consecrated ground,’ snaps Aziraphale, banishing his coat to the armchair as well before reaching for Crowley’s feet in their snakeskin shoes. ‘Water will not soothe, much less heal.’

‘It’ll heal by itself in a fe - _Aziraphale_?’

‘What?’ Aziraphale looks up to find Crowley frozen on the sofa, gaping and slack-jawed.

‘Wh-what … are you doing?’ Crowley sounds choked.

In that moment, it dawns on Aziraphale; he is, for the very first time in all of the six thousand years they have known each other, on his knees, in front of Crowley.

He cannot remember the last time he had knelt, for anything.

The moment drags on, an Angel at a Demon’s feet, as the world itself seems to disappear around them.

Aziraphale can feel the inherent _wrongness_ of it. And yet, peering up at the only one who has and ever will brave divine agony just for him, Aziraphale cannot think of a more _rightful_ place for him to be.

With gentle affection, he breaks the loaded silence, ‘What do you think? I’m going to heal you, of course.’

‘Aziraphale, you …’ Crowley’s fingers dig into the sofa’s worn seat. ‘I’m fine. You don’t have to.’

‘You’re not. And I do.’

‘Not like this. Get up, angel, you shouldn’t -’

‘You knelt for me before,’ Aziraphale points out quietly. ‘Remember?’

At that, Crowley falls silent. He slips off his glasses, exposing yellow eyes with not a sliver of white in them, filled with shock and awe.

Aziraphale smiles, almost shy. ‘Now, let me take a look at your poor feet.’

To his surprise, he finds that Crowley’s snakeskin shoes* have disappeared, leaving a pair of pale feet with delicate-looking ankles. Aziraphale grasps Crowley’s right calf to guide his foot onto his thigh, recalling another night so very long ago, when their positions were reversed.

(* Presuming that Crowley wears shoes in the first place.)

Contrary to his expectation, the underside of Crowley’s foot doesn’t appear burnt, the skin just as pale but with a strange, scale-like quality to it. But Crowley gives a little hiss of pain when Aziraphale presses the pad of his thumb to the sole.

‘Apologies, my dear.’

‘You think it’ll work? Angel and Demon energies mixing?’

Aziraphale furrows his brows. ‘I am not certain. Perhaps it will hurt. I might not be able to fully heal it, even.’

‘You do realise my powers will neutralise the burns eventually? Walking on holy ground is not like being doused in holy water -’ Crowley stops, stricken.

The tension that diffuses through the atmosphere is immediate and intense.

Aziraphale keeps his eyes locked on Crowley’s foot, feeling like he might shatter under the weight of the fight that estranged them for nearly eighty years.

He exhales slowly; now is not the time. Crowley has just walked back into Aziraphale’s life, one that he had saved. Again. To address the elephant in the room only for Crowley to walk right back out - it’s not worth it.

Instead, he murmurs, ‘That will take several days. But for now, I’m confident I can at least take the pain away.’

Without waiting for a response, Aziraphale cradles Crowley’s foot in his hands, and lets his power flow.

The Demon goes rigid, but he doesn’t recoil or protest. Relieved that his celestial touch doesn’t appear to be hurting Crowley more, Aziraphale directs all of his energy to the task at hand.

True to his suspicions, he is unable to fully reverse the damage, but he can draw out the pain from the invisible wounds.

Crowley heaves a sigh of relief, eyes fluttering shut. He offers the other foot without prompting.

When Aziraphale is done, Crowley plants his feet on the floor, wiggling his toes and pressing down experimentally.

‘Well?’ Aziraphale asks. ‘I couldn’t completely heal them, but -’

‘Hardly any pain,’ affirms Crowley. He looks up, lips twitching like he wants to smile. ‘Angel, I … that is, I mean to say -’

‘It was the least I could do,’ interrupts Aziraphale, deciding to spare Crowley the dilemma. ‘In fact, I ought to be thanking you still.’

Crowley glares at him, an effect ruined by the fond curve to his lips. ‘To reiterate myself: shut up.’

‘I must say it, though,’ says Aziraphale in all earnestness. ‘You … you protected my books, Crowley.’

‘Ngk.’

‘My dear…’

‘You would’ve gone on about it forever.’ Crowley looks away, fidgeting slightly. ’I know how you get about your damn books.’

‘ _Exactly_ ,’ Aziraphale breathes. Without thinking, he reaches up, cupping Crowley’s left cheek to bring that piercing gaze back to him. ‘That’s exactly it. You know and … you _do_ it. You’re the only one who would _ever_ …’ Aziraphale trails off, realising where his words are taking him.

Taking them.

Still as a statue, Crowley stares down at him. Nervousness settling in, Aziraphale makes to break away, but a cool hand covers his, holding him in place.

‘Angel,’ Crowley says, his voice low and carrying enough unspoken feeling to match the maelstrom within Aziraphale.

Eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s, Crowley turns his face, pursing his lips to brush a kiss on the Angel’s wrist.

Aziraphale’s heart flutters in his chest, and he is certain Crowley can feel it, in the leap of his pulse pressed chastely to Crowley’s mouth.

And then those lips part and there is nothing chaste about the touch of his tongue, hot and wanting, over the gossamer skin of Aziraphale’s wrist. Breath stolen from his very lungs, all Aziraphale can do is watch, caught in the thrall of Crowley’s eyes pinning him in place, as the Demon closes his mouth over his pulse again, in a kiss that speaks of millennia-long desire.

Aziraphale knows that language all too well; where he cannot ever unlearn it, he has struggled so hard to not speak it.

Eyes sliding shut, Crowley nuzzles his palm, flicking his tongue teasingly over Aziraphale’s wrist again. Suppressing a shudder, Aziraphale recalls that sharp nose cutting into the pulse under his ear, those sinful lips smearing rouge down the side of his neck, like flares of danger…

‘C-Crowley…’ Aziraphale gives a gentle tug at his captured hand.

As if burnt, Crowley lets go, eyes snapping open. Aziraphale brings his hand to his chest, fingers curled laxly.

Averting his gaze, Aziraphale gets to his feet. He clears his throat. ‘How about I - I go get those drinks for us?’

There is a beat. ‘Yeah. Yeah, sounds good, angel.’

Aziraphale cannot escape to his kitchenette fast enough.

Two bottles of wine between them help to alleviate some of the awkwardness in the air, the danger of the path they almost took. Four bottles and they are exchanging anecdotes, catching each other up just like in the old days. Six bottles and they are learning to laugh together again, old grievances forgotten for the time being and secret confessions near nonexistent.

And if Aziraphale can’t stop thinking about the emotions that assaulted him in the ruined church, about the reciprocation brimming in the press of Crowley’s mouth to his wrist, about how _easy_ it would’ve been to guide that mouth to his, seal the deal with the devil … well, no one else has to know, least of all the devil.

~***~

It takes six millennia and twenty-three years for Aziraphale to receive his fifth kiss from Crowley.

The sun hangs low in the sky when they leave the Ritz at last, cocooned in an aura that is not so much ethereal or occult as it is just incandescently happy.

He is well and truly _happy_ , Aziraphale realises as he looks at Crowley. Happy in a way he has never been free to feel, let alone express, before.

Crowley matches his smile with a rare one of his own, one that promises to emerge more frequently in the future.

Goodness, they have a _future_ now.

Words flee as the full weight of what they have accomplished hits him for the first time, leaving Aziraphale grappling for something to say. Crowley doesn’t seem to mind, instead falling into step with him to head in the direction of Soho in amiable silence.

Aziraphale looks down at his feet, a sensation inside his chest like a balloon stretched to bursting. They get to have this, really have this, now.

Ignoring taxis and buses, Crowley walks him all the way to his bookshop, standing tall and old in its cozy intersection. Standing back, Aziraphale appraises the familiar building where he’s built the home he never had in Heaven, remembering what his friend told him about the fire.

His bookshop looks as untouched as Crowley’s Bentley did … no, not untouched; remade and ready for a new future that once seemed as unreachable as the stars.* Just as the two of them are.

(* Well, for humans. Not for them, obviously.)

Stepping up to the door, Aziraphale turns around, ready to invite Crowley inside for more celebratory drinks.

His smile falters at the look on Crowley’s face.

The Demon is ashen-faced and tight-lipped, eyes hidden behind his glasses but clearly trained on the front doors of the shop.

It takes a few seconds for Aziraphale to connect the dots, reminding himself again about the fire that never was - but must have been intensely, cruelly real for Crowley.

He remembers the sound of a broken voice, cracking with drink and heartbreak.

_Oh_ , he thinks.

Before he can say a word, Crowley looks at him.

‘You’re here.’

The statement, so simple, so fragile in its forthrightness and vulnerability, knocks the breath out of Aziraphale.

There is a lot to say, Aziraphale comprehends in that instant. There are so many words to be said, and most of them, he cannot ignore, must come from him - for Crowley, his dearest, truest friend, deserves to hear them.

But there will be time for all of that in the days to come. Here and now, what Crowley needs is reassurance.

For once, not making any effort to hide the swell of his emotions, Aziraphale smiles at Crowley.

‘I’m here. As are you.’

‘I never left,’ says Crowley quietly.

That gives Aziraphale pause. It’s true, isn’t it, in every sense of the word? It has never, ever been Crowley who left.

He cannot change the past, but he can promise a future.

‘I won’t, either. I’m here. With you.’ A beat and Aziraphale takes that evasive leap. ‘For always.’

Crowley’s lips part, the only indication of his surprise. ‘Always?’ He repeats.

‘At least, for as long as you want me to.’

Crowley takes a step forward. ‘There is an eternity in there.’

Aziraphale feels his heart do that little jig again, the one that has grown stronger with every passing century.

‘Well, then,’ he says.

‘Well, then,’ Crowley echoes.

For the first time since they came upon the bookshop, Crowley smiles. As he plucks off his glasses, Aziraphale trembles a little under the warmth of his naked gaze, full of unadulterated affection.

Crowley takes another step and Aziraphale finds himself crowded up against the door of his bookshop, Crowley’s lean body the only shield between him and the oblivious passersby, blind to the Angel and Demon among them.

With a jolt, Aziraphale understands what Crowley is intending, breath catching as he leans in closer, his face sweet and tender and -

Aziraphale freezes, his limbs locking in place.

He sees Crowley’s eyes widen, sees the comprehension dawn on him, and at the last second, Crowley tilts his head away, pressing his lips against Aziraphale’s flushed cheek instead.

It barely lasts a second, but Aziraphale feels the kiss all the way down to his fisted hands; feels the _regret_ in his very toes.

An inch; all he needs is to move his head an inch and Crowley’s lips will be where they should be; where they should have been from the damned Beginning.

But then the touch is gone and Crowley is leaning back to look at him; not with disappointment or resentment or any of a number of other things Aziraphale wouldn’t blame him for feeling.

He looks _understanding_ , the tiniest downward tilt of his mouth the only indication of his sadness.

‘Whenever you’re ready, angel,’ says Crowley; a promise.

Aziraphale stares up at him, heart pounding. He ought to say something, he has to fix this.

Seconds pass and his throat remains clogged, useless as the rest of him.

‘I’ll leave you to your inventory then. I’ll just … go check on the Bentley.’ Clearing his throat, Crowley steps back. ‘Meet up for drinks later?’

Still speechless, Aziraphale nods. He hopes his earnestness reaches Crowley.

With another quirk of his lips, Crowley leaves.

Aziraphale watches him ago until his dark clad figure disappears around the corner. The choking grip around his throat finally loosens and Aziraphale almost sags against his door.

He hates himself in that moment; hates it that he gave into those bone-deep reactions he had driven into himself for millennia, perhaps ruining any and all chance for the life Crowley wants with him.

The one Aziraphale can now admit, freely, that he wants as well.

He is _free_ to have it and it’s already in shambles around him.

No, don’t be daft, Aziraphale tells himself later that night, as he takes in Adam Young’s addition to his collection without really seeing them.

Crowley is still his friend, his _best friend_. And despite what he did, Crowley’s feelings for him are unchanged.

Crowley has waited all these thousands of years for Aziraphale, his patience and devotion unparalleled. With their lives and freedom ahead of them now, surely they can come back to this point.

Crowley will express his interest again, and this time, Aziraphale will be true to himself; true to them both.

A year passes and his lips remain as they are, aching in want of a kiss that doesn’t come.

~***~

It takes six millennia and twenty-four years for Aziraphale to give his first kiss to Crowley.

Clair de Lune croons softly from the gramophone, nicely setting up Aziraphale’s backroom for a lovely morning in with a steaming mug of cocoa and a worn out copy of Pride and Prejudice.

It is not a first edition, that precious copy of his far too delicate to be handled for regular reading two hundred years on.

But even as he turns the page, nearing the end of the novel, he barely comprehends the words he is reading by rote, his mind instead on the short note that appeared on his desk a half hour ago.

In a familiar scrawl, it simply read, _World still bollocks. Setting alarm for October._

Aziraphale had read it once, twice, five times, and placed it inside a drawer, made himself a strong cup of tea and then proceeded to, again, regret the moment he’d exclaimed, ‘No!’ when Crowley invited himself over more than two months ago.

It’s past the middle of July now and all Aziraphale can think is, _Daft old fool, you should have said yes._

The regret coalesces within him, blurring the words and drowning out Debussy.

Crowley had sounded so cautiously hopeful when he offered to keep Aziraphale company; like he’d wondered if this time, _this time_ , Aziraphale might finally give the answer Crowley has been waiting for.

And just like last time, Aziraphale had frozen. He’d floundered and landed on good old reliable panic.

After a year of hoping that Crowley will make an offer again, the one time he does…

Aziraphale sighs heavily. He had resolved after that phone call that, when July rolled around, he would pull himself together and finally give that answer to Crowley. He’d made a mistake, but he could correct it - but July is here now and Crowley will be gone from him for another three months.

Crowley hadn’t even called after he woke up.

And why should he, Aziraphale asks himself fiercely. He barely deserved the note, as it is.

He refocuses on the book, absentmindedly reading the passages where Elizabeth finally makes her feelings known to Mr Darcy.

Brave young Elizabeth Bennet, overcoming the hurdles set before her by society and her own folly to pursue the man she loves, even after her harsh rejection of him -

Aziraphale looks up from the book sharply, thinking. The final scintillating notes of Clair de Lune fade away and the gramophone comes to a stop, obeying the wish of an Angel who is casting his mind back over the years; he thinks of affectionate eyes and soft smiles that have never dimmed over time, of amusing conversations and comfortable laughter over wine that never stopped flowing, of impassioned kisses and devoted love from the most unlikeliest source and -

The Angel puts down his book and rises to his feet, hands trembling slightly as he smoothes down his jacket.

All of those things will still be there, an open offer on the table, even three months later.

But Aziraphale … it is far past time that he stops waiting, waiting for the both of them.

He doesn’t bother with his coat or the streets. There is no one watching him, them, anymore and in the blink of an eye, Aziraphale is standing outside the sleek door to Crowley’s flat.

It swings open for him, because of course it does.

The air inside is still and cool, accompanied by that special derivative of silence that invades an abandoned place. But Aziraphale can sense Crowley’s aura easily enough, muted but unmistakable, and he crosses the foyer, walking through the series of corridors and rooms that lead him through the atrium* and into Crowley’s bedroom.

(* Crowley’s houseplants are still the most verdant in all of London because they will never dare be anything less, even with their master currently out of commission.)

The door to Crowley’s bedroom also opens for him, because of course it does.

A smile tugs at Aziraphale’s lips as he advances on the bed, Crowley’s shock of auburn hair visible even in the relative darkness of the room. The Demon is lying spread eagled, his dark sheets twisted and a mess around his lanky form, clad in black satin pyjamas.

He is deathly still, the usual rise and fall of his chest absent; it seems Crowley’s body doesn’t unconsciously remember to breathe, Aziraphale observes fondly. He doesn’t know why he finds that charming.

Still, Crowley looks peaceful in sleep, his face clear of its usual array of smirks, scowls and silliness*.

(* Aziraphale will never tell Crowley this. The eternity of bellyaching that would surely ensue doesn’t bear thinking about.)

Aziraphale takes in the sight of him for a few more seconds, indulging in this rare chance to see Crowley so openly vulnerable*.

(* He worries for a minute that Crowley may not appreciate this - but then he remembers that Crowley’s flat welcomed him as readily as the Demon himself does.

Aziraphale’s presence, regardless of what Crowley is doing, is never unwanted here.)

Carefully, he takes a seat on the bed beside Crowley’s supine body and places a gentle hand on a bony, satin-clad shoulder.

‘My dear, would you wake up? Please?’

Aziraphale isn’t sure what he expected; perhaps Crowley being a heavy sleeper difficult to rouse considering how fond he is of this particular habit. But the Demon’s eyes fly open at once, groggy although definitely awake from the moment Aziraphale speaks.

‘Oh,’ says the Angel, startled for a moment before he smiles. ‘Good morning, dear.’

Crowley blinks, once; his eyes grow sharper and then they narrow in confusion. ‘Angel?’

Aziraphale hums in affirmation.

‘Wha - what are you…?’ Brows furrowing, Crowley glances at the terribly complicated-looking alarm clock on his bedside table. ‘It’s still bloody July?’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘’M sleeping till October. Didn’t you get my note?’

‘I did, yes.’ Aziraphale coughs a little. ‘Less than an hour ago.’

Crowley sits up to lean against the headboard, appearing baffled. ‘That was this _morning_? What are you doing here, then?’

‘I … I’d been waiting to meet you when you woke up in July,’ Aziraphale admits. ‘You’ve overslept by a few weeks.’

Crowley wrinkles his nose. ‘Things are still shit, innit? Figured I’d give it three more months.’

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale mumbles. ‘Then you would be gone for nearly half a year.’

‘I’ve slept longer.’ Crowley shrugs.

‘I don’t want you to.’

Crowley stills at that, all of his attention shifting to the suddenly nervous Angel sitting beside him.

‘Two months were bad enough,’ Aziraphale blurts in a rush. ‘I … I’ve missed you, my dear. Terribly. Please don’t … don’t leave me alone for another three. In fact, I wish you would not leave me for three days even.’

‘Angel?’ Crowley stares at him.

Aziraphale takes in a deep breath, gathering the frayed threads of his courage to make it whole again. ‘If you would rather wait out these dismal days in bed, however, then I - I hope you would let me wait with you.’ He swallows. ‘Here. Or anywhere else you wish to be.’

‘Angel,’ Crowley says again. His eyes are fully yellow, the slitted pupils blown wide; Aziraphale can see understanding dawn in them, followed by the stirrings of cautious joy.

‘I … I have so many things to tell you, but right now, I cannot seem to find the words,’ Aziraphale murmurs. ‘But if I may … I could show you.’

Crowley regards him carefully. He nods, a quick jerk of his head betraying his own nervousness.

With another fortifying breath, Aziraphale closes his eyes and leans in.

He senses more than hears Crowley’s little gasp when the Angel gently presses a benediction to Crowley’s temple, kissing sleep-warmed skin and runway strands of dark red hair.

Pulling back, Aziraphale gauges the shock on Crowley’s face. He might have recoiled, thinking he’d overstepped, if not for the way Crowley leans forward ever so slightly; an invitation.

This time, Aziraphale takes it without hesitation, determined to make up for all the time he has wasted; give all the answers he has held back.

Reaching for Crowley’s left hand, he brushes his lips over his knuckles in a kiss as warm as the Arabian sun. Lowering the hand, Aziraphale leans up, meeting Crowley’s desirous gaze for a split second before he presses his mouth to the side of his neck, sucking a red mark in lieu of a scandalous rouge smear.

‘Aziraphale…’ Crowley rests his hand on Aziraphale’s left cheek as he nuzzles the Demon’s neck. Smiling, Aziraphale lets go only to twist his face, as Crowley had done before, to catch his wrist with a kiss.

‘Oh,’ Crowley breathes, as if he’d an epiphany.

And he must have, indeed, for when Aziraphale leans towards his cheek to complete the ritual, Crowley turns his head sharply, catching the Angel’s lips in a searing kiss.

A cry of pure longing and relief escapes Aziraphale at finally, _finally_ , being kissed. Eyes fluttering shut, Aziraphale feels as if his very bones have turned to liquid, melting into Crowley’s arms as he is hauled forward and pressed against the Demon’s chest.

Crowley drinks up the helpless sounds of pleasure from Aziraphale’s lips, kissing him firm but chaste until Aziraphale, with unashamed desperation for _more_ , parts his lips for Crowley, shyly pressing his tongue to the seam of his mouth in invitation.

He swears that Crowley practically _growls_ , the possessive sound sending thrills of pleasure through him. Lost in the feeling of being so thoroughly kissed, Aziraphale hardly registers it when he is pulled onto the bed and pressed into the pillows, Crowley on top of him until the Demon abruptly breaks off the kiss.

Eyes wide, Crowley pulls away. ‘I’m sorry, angel, I …’ He swallows, eyes flicking between Aziraphale’s anxiously. ‘I’ll slow down, I -’

‘Whenever you’re ready.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what you told me,’ Aziraphale says. ‘Whenever I’m ready …’ He cups Crowley’s face gently. ‘I am ready, my dear.’

‘Angel -’

‘I’ve been ready for a very long time,’ Aziraphale tells him firmly. ‘I’m sorry it took me even longer to let you know.’

‘Oh, angel,’ Crowley sighs, but his eyes are soft and there is the beginning of that smile Aziraphale adores, pulling at the corners of his lips.

Aziraphale hums. ‘So? Do you still wish to stay in bed until October? Perhaps I could also try my hand at this sleeping business and stay with you.’

Crowley’s smile unfolds in full, evolving from fond to downright wicked.

‘Oh, we’re definitely staying in bed until October. But,’ smirking, Crowley leans down to rub his nose against Aziraphale’s, pinning the Angel to the mattress with his weight, ‘don’t imagine, for one second, that I’m gonna let you get a wink of sleep.’

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale breathes. With a grin, he pulls Crowley down into a kiss. ‘When shall we start?’

**Author's Note:**

>  _Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips._ \- Percy Bysshe Shelley
> 
> I'm late to the #AwakeTheSnake party but it's a good thing bc I was able to incorporate Neil Gaiman's revelation that Crowley plans to sleep until October into this mess (and maybe an Oct follow-up? aksjdkjsdfn)
> 
> This ended up more feelsy than I intended but what else is new XD I did write another, much more lighthearted fic for Good Omens: Lockdown called ['Misstep'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24027106) if you're interested.  
> (Psst: I’ve also been in a jealous!Crowley mood lately but idk what to write. Feel free to hit me up with prompts, guys~)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please drop a comment or come hmu on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/RV_Phoenix_Soar) or [Tumblr](https://phoenix-soar.tumblr.com)
> 
> More of my Ineffable Husbands fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=575567&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Phoenix_Soar)


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